The 16th Fight (Waiting for You)
by Zinfandelli
Summary: Jack is a dumb. Pitch is dumbfounded. But hey! Least Jack gets sweet new duds outa the deal!
1. Chapter 1

Jack thoroughly decided that he much preferred 'low-tech' villages. Video games, and computers, and the internet were undoubtedly fascinating but also boring. It was a hit to his pride when kids opted for indoor visual entertainment over outdoor physical excitement. So, more and more often these days Jack found that creating his brand of fun was much easier and loads more rewarding in villages and towns where 'broadband' had yet to become a staple. Wasn't seeing real live high-definition way more entertaining than picture representations?

Whatever.

He pushed the sour thoughts from his mind as he found himself in one of his favorite spots this week, Peru. It was also July, right near the end of their winter and it was splendid snowball weather! He touched down in a town high in the Andes where the snow was deliciously crisp and perfect for compacting.

Working through the dawning light, Jack spent his time waiting by crafting glittering frosty rainbow panels and tilting them just so, so that the sun could catch and reflect off of them in dazzling light shows that played across the houses and fallow fields. The tactic did its job as the rising sun sent brilliant light dancing through windows and into bedrooms, because as much fun as sleeping in might be you had to wake up early to enjoy a full day outside! His trick worked just like magic and before ten a.m. the entirety of the small town's young population was out in their boots destroying his carefully crafted performance under footprints and rolled snowmen tracks.

It was perfect.

Two of the children also saw him! The pair of girls' shrieking excitement caught him completely off guard and when they hugged his hips he knew he was going to unfairly dote on them just a bit more than the other kids for the rest of the day. Jack wasn't very well known outside of the US and Europe still, but he was working on it! Seeing some of his effort paid off in the glittering of their eyes and the mittened high-fives swelled his heart, put him in a great mood, and before he knew it dusk was encroaching on their play-day and kids were yawning.

For all of his desire to play for decades, Jack knew his responsibilities and ushered the kids with chilly breezes and a few snowballs on their heels into their warm homes promising to visit again soon. Definitely soon. Stupidly soon. Maybe even tomorrow. Maybe he'd just spend the night in the field making a sledding track and actually go knock on doors in the morning? Oh! And freeze a few inches of ice over the fields for a skating rink! Best idea.

He hopped into the breeze and slid back over to the field to enact his plan. He began with crushing down left over corn stalks that poked up through the trampled snow but then quickly became distracted by all the boot prints, the evidence of their fun. He followed them and ran through the activities that caused them. Snowball fights over there, a sled path here, ah-hah! A huge section of exposed dirt where muddy snowmen had rolled up every last bit of snow! Proof! The snowmen in question were a few yards off and as Jack went to-

"Boo."

The unexpected voice had him whirling to face his foe, staff gripped tight, but nothing was there. He recognized the tone instantly but the field was open and flat! There were no immediate shadows near him – the snowmen? No, the shadows over there were normal…where?

Laughter found his ears, and Jack took off. The jerk was using his shadow!

Thankfully, taking to the air cured that misstep.

"Oh you're no fun."

"I ooze fun." He shot back scanning the ground.

Another laugh.

And there he was. Pitch standing where Jack's shadow had been seconds ago. That was the cue! Jack twirled mid air using his own momentum to thrust his magic at the enemy.

Dodged. Easily. Pitch leapt from the earth to join him in the sky.

Pitch never initiated a fight, never found him first. Jack was always the one to approach him if he found him somewhere across the globe. So understandably, he was a bit confused. Jack thought he was completely safe in his global routines because Pitch had a seemingly sour opinion of the whole game. Clearly not! Amazingly not! Jack laughed out loud as they met level in the air and swept his staff to the side, a flurry of snowflakes coming to life behind it.

Scythe instantly in hand Pitch sliced it at the boy's middle without a moment's hesitation, but Jack released his hold in the air and fell through the swipe sprawling ungracefully, snow swirling madly through the disturbances.

Jack knew the wind occasionally had fun with them too. Scratch that. The wind always had fun with them. He was certain of it, and if he looked like a fool batted around by the breezes as he went then so be it. That's how the wind carried him, that was how he fought. Not to mention, it was ridiculously fun!

A vertical slash from behind. Jack spun in the breeze to the side. He spun and grinned as he countered with an X shaped blast of crackling lighting to cover both diagonals. Pitch disappeared in a rain of sand.

He waited momentarily for the man to rematerialize and twiddled his fingers through the drafts caressing them, "You gotta make me look better than that, Wind." He joked before his hood was violently yanked and he was flipped through the air, his body sent rocketing to the ground.

Impact. Jack gasped to get his breath back and rolled out of the way when the scythe hammered into the dirt by his shoulder. He slammed his staff into the broken stalks and crunchy frozen mud to ice it all. The scythe was frozen where it stuck, useless.

Pitch growled and tugged on the hilt of it once, testing, and Jack grinned as he got up into a crouch.

"Oops!" he laughed.

And Pitch smirked releasing the weapon disintegrating it instantly, the loose particles swirling back to his fingers, a scythe blade shaped sculpture of jagged black ice left in the ground. With a flick of each wrist the black sand reformed in his hands into new weapons, two sickles.

Jack grinned as he stood. It really was a good day! Pitch barely ever deviated from his tried and true weapon of choice. This would be fun. A double offensive was entirely new for him but it didn't give him pause in the least. He charged Pitch on the ground and slashed sideways with the straight end of his crook, but Pitch caught the weapon with his hooks. Jack countered with a backwards spin away and used his momentum to get behind Pitch to attack his opposite side as fast as he could and- Yes! Pitch went stumbling, his side slick and shiny with a coat of ice.

They both took to the air again and went on a wild chase up into the Andes, across the steppe farms, and away from civilization. The fight continued vigorously over snow capped peaks and rugged jagged valleys.

Hours later into a cat and mouse sort of brawl, Jack found himself in a pinch. He was catching his breath as he hid from Pitch for a short break, rubbing at his shoulder that was starting to bruise. Pitch was stronger today. What was different, more fear? Maybe Jack had played too hard during the day, expending too much energy in his excitement. The fight was great but Jack was getting tired and the morning was still an hour away, their usual cut-off time. Eleven hours of battle (winter nights were long, ugh) really wore it out of him, and though his stamina had been greatly increased by these fights, today was hard. Nope! Stop that, no complaining.

Leaping to his feet Jack slowly glided up the mountain side, staff gripped in both hands when-

"Ah ah! Careless!" And a slash at his back had Jack sprawling.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack fell to the earth with a shout, landing hard and rolling to his side. Pitch sneered delightedly as he watched, his victory secure.

"Ah fuck! Pitch!" the boy wailed as he hefted himself into to a sitting position. He pulled at his clothes and the hoodie came apart across is back easily. The thing was rags now. He swore at the destroyed garment in his shaking hands.

Pitch was already sitting on a rock just meters from Jack his elbow on his knee, his chin in his palm, an incredulous smirk tugging at his lips.

Jack stared disbelievingly at his mangled clothes. "Damnit, Pitch this was my only shirt!" He was too upset to notice that his behavior was odd, way too familiar. Jack Frost didn't whine to Pitch Black. Ever.

Yet here he was, clutching the remains of his hoodie, his staff forgotten and lying just out of his reach. The boy fumed as he stupidly held the tear together, as if it would heal by the power of his gaze alone.

"Your back is bleeding profusely and your staff is so far away I could kill you in 2 seconds flat, and you're worried about your clothes?" Pitch was enjoying the sight and situation immensely. The winter sprite practically glowed as bright as the moon, his skin was so pale.

Ah. That got his attention.

Jack's mouth fell open and he gaped at Pitch in utter disbelief. And a moment passed until Pitch raised his eyebrow yet again tilting his head to the side a bit in silent question.

All Jack could manage in the wake of his hoodie's demise was a tight grin. "You owe me a new sweatshirt."

"What is wrong with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'm your enemy."

"Yeah. And?"

"What?"

"What?"

Jack's smile widened as Pitch's face fell, shocked. The Nightmare King couldn't form a word. This boy. This boy, who's been his even match, fought against him for years, had utterly no defenses and didn't even care! Jack was a warrior, a talented fighter, and if he wasn't before Pitch made sure he damn well was now (those implications about practically training his arch nemesis were not lost on him).

He didn't know what to do, he just stared into those eyes bluer than the sky, and they stared back twinkling in excitement and pain. Jack's expression was determined but light. Pitch knew the fear in him and relished in the flavors emanating from him as they fought numerous times; the different kinds he experienced, the degree to which they infected his mind, his body. How the fear manipulated him into his decisions to dodge, counter, or flee entirely-

"Shit," there was a sigh. Had Jack found his reason? "Now we're almost even!" Clearly not.

"What." Pitch mentally kicked himself. Was that lame reply all his years of existing and hearing the hundreds of languages of the world could offer him? He shouldn't even be indulging the boy by acknowledging him…but here he was.

"The score! It's now 7-6, we're almost even!"

"No…Last time I checked it was 10-5"

"What?" It was Jack's turn to sound dumb.

"The score is 10-5 you."

"No. it's 7-6 with 3 draws."

"Draws?"

"Duh. When we ended evenly?" Jack looked superior despite sitting in the snow shirtless and dirty. Pitch quietly fumed. He should off the little brat right where he sat. Or let him bleed out as was the current situation. But Jack sallied forth unrepentant. "The first time in China was me, the second fight in Vermont was you, then I came back with glorious vengeance off the coast of England. The fourth time was mine, 5th mine, 6th mine again, 7th yours, 8th mine – the one out in the pacific right? The 9th in Belgium was our first draw, and then the 10th fight in Tibet was yours-"

"No Tibet was definitely your win."

"What? No way! You broke my nose you deserved that one. It was amazing."

Amazing? Nothing Pitch did was ever considered amazing, least of which a broken nose could qualify. He was thrown right back into his thoughts and while Jack waited a moment he was impatient to prove his point and continued.

"What's the tally at then…6-3 with one draw. The 11th time was you, 12 was a draw, 13 you again, 14 me finally. 15 a draw and now this fight! 16 is totally you. I can barely move." Jack was pleasantly impressed and grinned to show it. "But you definitely still owe me a hoodie since I let you win."

"Let me win?" That pulled pitch from his reverie with a scoff. He didn't even argue the three draws he considered Jack's victories.

"Duh!" Jack laughed, but it was stiff, a quiet cracking of ice responded to his movement.

Pitch noticed and got to his feet finally. A spike of fear emanating from Jack as he did so, all previous bravado wavering. Ah, so the boy did have some sense to him. Pitch stood still watching Jack as his fingers flexed for his staff out of his reach, His voice lost as wide eyes trained on every move Pitch made.

Sighing, Pitch stepped over to the staff, and felt the fear more keenly now. He glanced at Jack, the taste so potent it showed in his eyes clearly. He was practically gagging on the sensation being forced down his throat. Ah, it's that memory. Pitch hadn't tasted this kind of fear from Jack in a good few years. The fear of mortal peril with a hint of betrayal, and a whiff of anticipated loneliness. A lovely bouquet to rival his best grin on the King's face now would make eyes bleed, and Jack looked almost blue as he paled. His heart hammering so loudly Pitch delighted he could almost hear it. That must be terrible for the blood loss that probably threatened his consciousness.

Laughing through his nose softly, Pitch lightly kicked the wooden staff into Jack's reach instead of stomping it in half. The relief was instantaneous, almost made him swoon from such abrupt withdrawal.

Jack scrabbled for the wooden lifeline and clutched it to himself. The breath he was holding came back in waves now at the return of his most precious item. His face strained as ice splintered and Pitch wondered if he went too far. The trauma seemed to run deep, much older than the breaking at Antarctica.

"Th-thank you…." He whispered to the ground. Digging the butt end of the stick into the snow, knuckles bluing as Jack slowly lifted himself up to his knees leaning heavily on his crutch. Pitch just watched.

"Thankyou" He whispered again after he stood. "thankyouthankyouthankyouohgod-" the words spilled out in a rush before he nearly choked on them, but he finally forced eye contact with Pitch and said properly. "Thank you."

Pitch's face was a mask. He didn't know what sort of expression to even put on it. This kid was an anomaly. No one ever in the history of his memory said 'thank you' to the Boogeyman, no one ever said so many words as Jack did to him, period, and certainly no one's fear vanished in his presence quite like Jack's did.

"You are welcome." Was his quiet, stiff reply.

Jack nearly swooned in light-headed and giddiness. Dawn was approaching now and the look in Jack's eyes almost pleaded for Pitch to stay, he could tell. Pitch stepped back, uncomfortable.

"Y-you…still owe me that sweatshirt…"He said shakily in a poor attempt to keep Pitch there, his teeth chattering. He was hunched over putting nearly all of his weight on his staff. His back was in a bad way, and his fingers were clenching against his staff attempting to find the strength to keep himself upright.

"Hey. Frost."

Jack wrenched his head up to look at Pitch and it swam, his eyes rolled. Nope. This wasn't going to work how he wanted. Jack folded to his body's whims and sat back down hard. His legs practically crumpling beneath him.

Pitch jerked in awkwardly to try and help him but couldn't do anything. His step in however did reveal the state of the boy's back to him, and a low hiss escaped through his teeth.

Jack noticed and looked up sheepishly. "You did a pretty good job on that one." He commented feeling much better sitting. He readjusted his legs to sit Indian-style and rested his forehead on his wrist clutching his upright staff.

"Ah." Was all Pitch could manage. That looked terrible. The cut was clean, Pitch's sand always cut as cleanly as glass, but the skin spread open and was covered in rough jagged crystallized globs of frozen blood. What hadn't frozen in time trickled down into Jack's pants and some pooled in the snow he sat in. The wound oozed blood gently from the cracks in the ice caused by Jack attempting to stand.

"Don't worry though," Jack said that more for himself than Pitch. "It'll be like it never happened in a few weeks and I'll be expecting a new hoodie and a victory by then." He was adamant about the shirt.

"You should get up to the North Pole and have North stitch you up-"

"What?! No! I can't go to North…" Jacks voice petered out half-heartedly.

That struck Pitch though…Jack was a Guardian why can't his fellows help him? "What do you mean? You need medical treatment…"

"They uh….Don't know. And look, it's really not that-"

"Idiot boy. Of course they don't know. This just happened."

"No. I mean. They don't know we duel. I can't tell them. They can't know."

"That's a measly secret."

"Shut up. You can leave now. It's morning. I'll just sleep it off. Gratz on your win." Jack's jovial mood seemed to be quite run out. The wonder of Pitch acting so out of character towards him was wearing off and the pain was festering. Jack gently laid himself down in the snow on his side to better accommodate the near turtle shell of bloody ice crusting on his back. He folded his arms over his chest, tucked his fingers up underneath them in some reflexive gesture searching for nonexistent warmth, and closed his eyes.

Pitch tch'd in irritation and disappeared, leaving Jack in the snow of the Ande's to sleep off his wound.


	3. Chapter 3

With a startled gasp Jack awoke. It wasn't the sort of panic that would thrust you from a nightmare but the kind that had you jumping awake absolutely certain you missed an appointment. Jack had no such arrangements and thus spent a confused moment remembering where he was and why his entire body ached and refused to let him move.

Snow lay undisturbed all around him, he had been buried under at least six inches of the stuff. The freshness and density of it told him a little about how long he had been out. Something like two days actually. Wow. So much for that second play date with those kids.

He tested his limbs carefully and found most of the stiffness was manageable. His shoulders and spine however protested magnificently, not even including the casting of icy blood that had grown during his rest. He twinged in pain as he tried to roll his shoulders. Nope. That wasn't going to work.

Letting his limbs rest for a moment he looked around again and took stock of the recognizable lumps under the snow. One was his staff that had a gentle slope indicating its whereabouts and two was the bump of his old hoodie. Three was…a neat square mound situated right next to his staff separated enough to indicate it was a totally different object.

Reaching for it he flinched slightly as the ice that had encrusted itself from his shoulders down his arms cracked and fell away. Gently he lifted the object from the snow and shook the flakes from it. Black cloth? He unfolded it a grin growing wider as he did.

His sudden laughter could have caused an avalanche!

A hoodie! A black cottony, floofy on the inside, hoodie! He turned it to either side and couldn't stop his giggle. It had a silver zipper down the middle and the front pocket was split in two. The hem stitching was a neat sharp blanket stitch that reminded Jack of icicle lined roofs and he opened the collar up to find a simple black tag with silvery stitching saying '100% Egyptian Cotton'.

He laughed again but stilled a moment later. With a sudden spark of the intelligence he seemed to have abandoned ten years ago when he started this whole escapade, Jack gingerly brought the fabric to his nose inhaling deeply. There was no scent of hexes, jinxes, or curses as far as he could tell. The taste and tingle of Pitch's breed of magic was absent as well. What did linger was the smell of stale ashes and rusting metal. That was Pitch's smell alright, and that seemed to be the only thing supernatural the garment possessed.

Satisfied, Jack sighed and sat back into the snow, or at least tried to when he was again reminded that his back was a mess. He leaned forwards instead letting himself hunch comfortably into the position the ice had formed on him, looking down at the gift sitting innocently in his lap. This was perfect. Actually more than perfect. Pitch had accepted the unspoken terms, and Jack liked to think that he did so willingly. He ran a finger down the zipper and smirked. Now he just had to find something of Pitch's to destroy so he could return the gesture.

He almost choked on a giggle at the idea of wrapping a pack of leggings.

Then, he groaned in pain. Note to self, laughing too hard was not the way to stop the pain. The ice on his back had fractured. Great. It didn't diminish his pleasure though as he fished his staff and old hoodie from the snow.

As he began to tie both garments to his crook a thought occurred to him.

Pitch had given a gift to him. He'd quietly accepted this relationship the two of them had. It was solid, set in stone, if the Boogeyman wasn't willing he could have easily snapped Jack's staff and left him there to rot. He didn't, in fact, he did the opposite. He gave the staff back and then replaced what he did ruin. If that wasn't confirmation that the weird relationship they had was friendship then Jack didn't know what else would do it.

And suddenly he had ideas! Gloriously fun ideas. Plans to put in motion, things to do, games he had made up and played by himself, but no longer! Pitch would love them too, he was sure. He'd need some time, and some help. North would gladly do him a small favor like this. The big issue would be figuring out the technique. Once upon a time he had played with the structures of ice and found he could make it something less than brittle with a bit of magic. Maybe with a bit more effort it could be downright strong? Sure it could. And the fighting with Pitch had illustrated numerous times just how dependant on his staff he was so….yeah. Jack thought he could do it. He'd make a game of it and when he visited Pitch next, the fight would be so fun Jack would have the man reeling! Begging for him not to leave, to keep fighting, to always hang out because duh! That was what friends did.

Grinning like a wild man Jack crunched the borderline stale snow between his fingers. He punched the butt end of his staff through the layers down into the frozen gravel of the mountain and used it as leverage to get himself standing. The ice at his back crackled and some broke off.

Good. Not good. He could feel its rigid fingers had crawled into the wound and froze his blood to his skin. Damn. He had slept too long.

The wind ruffled at his hair and Jack sighed, glad that it decided to humor him and would carry him gently. Pulling his staff from the ground, and checking to make sure both of his hoodies were tied securely to his crook, Jack hopped up onto the breeze stumbling a bit from the awkward posture of his back. It would hurt later, his ice numbed the pain wonderfully, but he couldn't heal with it all packed in there. He laughed through his nose because he had to repay Pitch for this too, it would be the polite thing to do.

After a short pause, the wind rolled Jack up into the air, and with a reprimanding hiss of pain from its passenger, whisked him off to the tropics to thaw.


End file.
